Velora
By the time she arrived at work, she had put on a new personality.
Her clients didn't care if she was stressed, worn out or having sleepless nights from doing some digging on a potential ghost from the underworld and a rival that mysteriously returned out of the blue.. They had their own problems and they came to her with them. And she gave them what they needed. Guidance, reassurance, a sense of direction and a safe place to unload their darkest thoughts.
After some meditation, she entertained the very first session of the day. Her first client was a high-profile politician, Senator Caldwell. He sat across from her, his body rigid and his hands clasped together, his fancy suit failing miserably at hiding his atrocities. His eyes constantly darted towards the door like he was expecting someone to barge in. Guilt. It was written all over him.
"I haven't been sleeping." He admitted, his voice trembling slightly. The power he showed everyone had left. Sitting before was just a poor broken and scared man. "The nightmares… they keep getting worse."
She nodded, taking a sip of my coffee, slow and steady. "What do you see in them?"
He hesitated, exhaling. "Blood." His jaw clenched. "Too much of it."
Her head tilted a bit. "Yours?"
He shook his head before looking away. "Someone else's."
She already knew, of course. The signs were there. The way he said it, the fear, the atmosphere he had created, it all told a story he didn't want to share. She leaned forward slightly. "You know you can tell me anything right?" Her voice dropped to a slightly more intimate and encouraging tone.
He looked into her eyes and swallowed, his throat bobbing. He wasn't going to say it, and that was fine. She was used to it, and she wasn't expecting him to. He looked away again, the moments passed. She was patient, waiting for the right time. She had planted the seeds, the confession would come in its own time.
By the time the session ended, she had reassured him that he wasn't a monster and that his mind was processing things in a way he couldn't control. It was a lie, but that was what he needed to hear. He left with a sense of relief. He was indeed a monster.
The intercom buzzed, yanking Velora from the fake peace Caldwell's departure had left. "Yeah, Grace?"
"Ms. Alvaro," Grace's voice, all sunshine, came through the speaker. "Mr. Davies is here for his redo appointment. He's a bit… worked up, keeps asking if you're okay."
Velora rubbed her temples. Davies. Drama king of the art world, always thinking the sky was falling. "Send him in, Grace. And maybe another coffee for me? This morning's wearing thin."
A second later, Davies swept in, a tornado of silk and nerves. He paced her office like a fancy bird in a cage. "Velora, darling! You sounded off yesterday. Said you had to move things. You alright? Haven't caught the plague or something, have you? The gallery needs your calm, you know. This new artist is giving me fits…"
Velora smiled, the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Mr. Davies, please. I'm fine, just a bit of a headache. Nothing to panic about." Another little lie. "Do sit. Tell me about this… difficult artist."
As Davies launched into a dramatic tale of artistic egos and clashing colors, Velora half-listened, her brain still stuck on her ghost man. It was a weird mix. His petty art world problems versus the real danger sniffing around her. But she played along, nodding and asking the right questions, while a part of her stayed cool, figuring things out.
This was her life, walking between the act and the real her. She was a therapist, a friend, a puppet master, whatever the moment needed. And right now, it meant calming down a stressed artist while planning how to handle a ghost who knew too much. The irony? Yeah, she saw it. A dark little chuckle stayed inside.
The rest of the day ran by in a blur. Back-to-back appointments. A line of worried people with secrets. CEOs, celebrities, people with too much power and too many secrets. She played her part by listening, nodding and playing with them psychologically to make them feel better.
But her mind wasn't in the room. It was searching for a ghost. Lilith, the old enemy was lurking in her thoughts too. So she left the office early.
••
By 4:30pm, she walked into a quiet café. Her eyes scanned the tables until she spotted Cass at the back, scrolling through his phone. She sashayed towards him and slid into the seat across from him.
"You look like hell." He said with a smirk.
"Thanks" was her one line response as she picked up his remaining iced tea and downed it. Bland taste. Typical Cassian.
"You're welcome."
She exhaled, rubbing her temples. The sweet fragrance of vanilla and cinnamon flooded her nostrils. The soft clinks of ceramic cups and saucers could be heard in the background.
Cass leaned forward. "So, the mystery man. Any luck with our ghost?"
She took a quick glance around, making sure no one was listening, and then back at him.
"Nothing. No records, no pictures, no connections to Marcello. It's like he doesn't exist."
Cass raised a brow. "Or someone doesn't want him to exist."
A feeling of unsettlement washed over her.
She had been in the underworld long enough to know that people didn't automatically disappear from records unless they had the power to erase themselves. If that was the case with him, then he wasn't just dangerous. He was untouchable.
Cass watched her with an unreadable expression.
"What's your next move?" He asked quietly.
She inhaled, twisting the ring on her finger. "I haven't finished my job on Marcello. I'm finishing it today. You guys keep digging on him."
He studied her for a few seconds then he nodded. "Alright, but be careful."
She met his gaze. "I always am."
Lies.
She got home late, and the city was finally quiet. Kicking off her heels by the entrance, she winced—her feet were killing her. As she tried to unlock the door with her passcode, her eyes caught a piece of paper on the floor. Plain, like someone had ripped it from a notepad.
She frowned. Who the hell would leave a note? Cass always called. Anyone else wouldn't dare. Picking it up, she unfolded it. The words were scribbled in black ink, messy, like they had been written in a hurry.